


Letters to Thomas

by AutumnQuest



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Letters, M/M, Reminiscing, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 03:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16632410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutumnQuest/pseuds/AutumnQuest
Summary: Letters to Thomas Hamilton from Captain Flint's journal sometime before the Urca."My rage has consumed and consumes everything that it touches. How I still stand I do not know, how I have not eaten myself from the inside I do not know. Perhaps I have; perhaps I am hollow."





	Letters to Thomas

**Author's Note:**

> A series of letters to Thomas in James' journal - a year on from receiving devastating news. This is set before the events of Black Sails.
> 
> I've tried to write it as if Flint is sat currently writing, so some things cut off etc.. intentionally. The coordinates are real - hopefully I managed to write them right to the movement of the Walrus with the story.
> 
> I used this amazing timeline by dornfelder (https://archiveofourown.org/works/11631612)

**20 th March 1709 **

**Off Shore, Caribbean Sea - 15°19'35.7"N 76°09'26.0"W**

The letter.

 _That letter_.

It is a little over a year since Peter Ashe sent his letter.

It arrived in the morning I was told by Miranda. Thinking back now I did not recognise the detached look on her face. So much has happened since 1706 –

I can still feel it now, heavy in my hand - how strange… How can paper weigh so much? Like a boulder on the chest, like an oppressive lacking weight of emptiness, loneliness as if you’ve been gutted through the chest, your heart gone. Paper…

The handwritten script of finality. The final and last tie severed. I had read the damn thing over and over and the words just seemed to run faster and faster. Once I had no need to read it, it was memorised to the comma; Miranda had the letter burned. It was some kind of release for her I believe but it was too late for me. Its words had become a night time prayer, I lay awake and read it to myself almost every night.

Be damned the carrier that brought its pain, be damned Peter Ashe. But - could I have continued living thinking you sat in some room, alone and cold, vilified? I think… yes, I could have. Delusions are a blissful thing. Now I just think of you left somewhere, disposed of as if nothing, rotting as if nothing – And I –

A little over a year and still that damned letter… The Walrus has been rather quiet as of late something I find myself not used to. Quiet enough that Miranda’s comment about my rage has got me thinking, mulling over the airy comment made over a pauper’s dinner - “you could eat your rage and live forever James”.

My rage has consumed and consumes everything that it touches. How I still stand I do not know, how I have not eaten myself from the inside I do not know. Perhaps I have; perhaps I am hollow.

The letter. It had read with a detachment that I thought impossible of Ashe, a detachment that smelt of jealousy? But – perhaps that is just the bitter rage of my own guilt? The remorse of not returning and fighting? The shame of what was and is my fault?

That damned letter wouldn’t have sat upon my desk for weeks after If I had left you to your wife and not waltzed down the path of temptation.

Thomas.

You would be here.

-

**Later --**

The night is lit with a tropic storm, the waves battering the side of the ship. The ship is battered but she is sturdy and I trust her swiftness over the waves, I will need to get some maintenance done next time we are at port.

The men are all in bed, I sit at my creaking desk because I can’t remember how to sleep. Sleep is a luxury long gone, sleep requires the sense of safety and so little of that I feel. I can’t remember the tears, but the thought of the letter has brought them. The letter itself by the end was smeared -- People say they can cry no more at some point in grief. What a fantastical idea! I’ve always managed to find more tears to shed for you.

I know I shouted to be left in peace for one goddamn minute this evening. But perhaps I should spend time with the men so as not to think too much?

Peace? How will I find it now? Peace has eluded me for the last year. It has eluded me since 1706 –

My writing it off, I cannot think coherently.

There is no peace upon the waves a traitor, a tyrannical Captain, a blood thirsty pirate.

You would not look at me now Thomas. You would be ashamed of me.

-

**Later – Early 21 st March 1709 **

**Near, Coast of Cuba - 19°34'24.0"N 74°48'47.1"W**

Fuck them all.

-

**22 nd March 1709**

**Off Shore, North Atlantic Ocean - 22°59'48.8"N 76°43'38.6"W**

Thomas.

You were in my dream last night. You were in my dream at the dining table of the Hamilton House the night you first kissed me. I’m remembering it now because of the letter. I wish I never sat to think about my rage…

Forgive me Thomas but I do my best to not think of you, particularly moments of intimacy. It pains me too much to think of how short our time was and how many years lay ahead without you. That moment I stood by the window and turned to catch you smiling at me with the sun upon your face. That smile – sleepy and so full of promise. How quickly it changed to devilry, that mischievous glint in your eye.

You told me, “ _know no shame,”_ but since your death that is all I know. I know its sweet whispers in my ear as I try to rest, it will not let me rest.

…The feel of my hands on your back, your shoulders… That kiss. I must confess I have taken to Miranda’s bed. She is the last thing of you and the closest I will ever be to you again. It’s selfish I know but the comfort of sleeping with your wife is something of peace to me. Something of sleep.

We find you – Thomas – in each other.

I will treat her as my wife. She treats me as she treated you. Ever patient and ever loving.

P.S

My rage has begun boiling over again I can feel it in my chest Thomas, you would barely know the man I have become or am becoming. She said you would not recognise me now, I believe she is right.

P.S.S

These ramblings are getting worse I know but I need to talk to someone and the only one I would talk to is you.

-

**April 13 th 1711 **

**South-West Bay, Nassau - 24°59'46.7"N 77°30'42.2"W**

Miranda has received a letter that at present I am refusing to acknowledge. She has rattled on to me that the letter holds some information about the location of Alfred Hamilton. I will not seek the content of the letter. I will not fall further into my rage.

-

**Later –**

Miranda is in tears. She weeps and wails. I am not one for the frailty of women.

-

**Later –**

She had pushed the letter between our book. The note lays across your writing. She is being bloody minded shaming me with my held rage.

I will scratch what I wrote earlier, she is not frail at all, she is crass and edged. She is the product of a narrowminded oppressive England. She is the product of our new life here in the Republic of Pirates.

She is for sure your wife.

-

**April 19 th 1711                                                              **

**North-East Bay, Nassau - 25°05'11.5"N 77°16'58.2"W**

You wrote to me.

_“My truest love know no shame.”_

I am ashamed. I am guilt ridden. I am pariah.

I could not bare staying with Miranda a minute longer, her glaring anger and venomous words. Her steadfast stronghold resolve to do what she claims I am too cowardice to do. I have no doubt that she will do it too. She is a pillar Thomas, a solid beam of strength that is Godly and she is the truest of arrows.

It is I who would have supposed rage but I begin to feel I am not alone. Perhaps her words are self-reflective? We mirror each other - she and I - she is me and I am her.

Allow me to explain myself to you Thomas.

My rage it breathes. It expands and shrinks. At times it is not there, at others it is blood red in my eyes. My stomach feels like an ulcer, my lungs a blister, my heart… well – I cannot say because I do not feel it. It itches over my skin and when I stand at the helm of my ship and set my men upon a defenceless merchant I feel nothing but the sweet toxic joy of letting the rage surface. I take it out on those that cannot possibly know why. It is unsatisfying and satisfying all at once. It is a poisonous venom that has leeched beneath my skin and saturated my marrow.

P.S

I have the chance to take it out on someone that knows why. See? Miranda is in me and I in her, she knew my mind before even I.

-

**June 2 nd 1712                                                            **

**Off Shore, North Atlantic - 14°52'11.9"N 59°20'03.1"W**

Rage is no longer an apt word. A year has passed - Alfred has either slipped past or has decided to stay in England. For his sake I hope he has picked the latter for that is the only haven he has.

Rage. Fury. Wrath. Whatever I am now feeling it is of those words.

-

**August 30 th 1712                                                    **

**Off Coast, South Carolina - 34°04'33.2"N 77°39'44.5"W**

Thomas.

_The Maria Aleyne._

-

**January 4 th 1713                                         **

**Off Shore, North Atlantic Ocean - 37°14'01.9"N 74°18'12.3"W**

The crew are unaware as to why I seek this ship, _The Maria Aleyne_ \-- I have said for gold. Gold always sways the hearts of the men - they are stupid, foolish, sheepish in nature. A means to an end. The Walrus is getting a bit of a reputation now for death and that will serve us well.

I intend to let the men fight the crew, that way when they discover there is no gold they will not care, I intend for everything to go wayward.

Most of all I intend to let out all my wrath upon _The Maria Aleyne_ and in particular the one stowaway.

-

**Later –**

She is in sight. The men are anxious. Some can sense that there is more to this than gold, those are the ones I either need to watch for future mutiny or the ones that will stick to me. They are but – a means to an end.

-

**January 5 th 1713                                           **

**Off Shore, North Atlantic Ocean - 37°14'03.4"N 74°18'38.8"W**

Cape Charles? North Carolina? Her course is not true but I believe the Captain of the ship is aware that he is being hunted. Perhaps he has asked the crew to swerve and weave, it will not help him. The Walrus is lethal.

I will have blood.

Maybe my ship has been spotted on the horizon although I have asked for the colours to not fly yet. It is obvious from her lack of grace that she is a pirate ship. I want it to fly – my own black flag –  so he will see it coming and he will know who is Captain of this ship. So somewhere in the belly of _The Maria Aleyne_ he will be warned of the ship that’s stalking and the colours that fly before it. Hopefully he will have heard stories of my Captaincy. He will – hopefully – not connect the dots but he will be struck dumb with fear and soon that fear will have a personal face.

-

**January 6 th 1713                                                    **

**Near Coast, North Carolina - 34°59'37.6"N 76°11'08.8"W**

My truest love -- forgive me.

-

**Later –**

The ship was cold when we boarded. Whenever I let the wrath surface, it is as if my other senses dim. I know however the sounds of a failing ship. The gunshots and powder, the burning smell of flesh ripped with a bullet. The iron smell of excessive spilt blood. The creaking of the salt worn wood. The lapping of the waves and the ship rocking to the additional weight.

Men - screaming, begging, crying. The cursing and graphic garble of my crew to creating their own piracy myths, crafting their own legends or adding to my own.

My pistol tore through men like a raged bull, on reloads I butted the handled into several cheeks, eyes, temples. Their blood welling, soaking my black clothes further into darkness. My blade swiped any passing hand, arm, limb. Slashing a path to my own treasure.

The rare fighters that don’t give an inch to the scourge and deathly resist, even in the face of such a ship as the Walrus and her crew. When they fall even the pirates let them rest. I have taught the men to respect a man that dies fighting and leave him when he is fatally wounded. There is no honour in killing a dying man, pirate or not.

That’s not to say I had honour it what I did this night.

My ears were filled with the waves of wrath in my blood. The ship was easy to navigate, I knew that the bastard would not be fighting but cowering in some dank corner, whimpering. That thought did not stop me from being any less honourable.

I had envisioned this moment since I decided to let out my rage. I had considered asking him various questions, why? Your own son? Because of me? Because he saw a future you couldn’t? Considered even keeping him alive and interrogating him at my pleasure, letting Miranda have her fair share to bring her down the rabbit hole of hell with me. But in the end-

His face came out of the dark. More aged and withered; I felt no sympathy.

The only saving grace stopping me from ending it too quickly was due to the fact I wore a scarf across my face to protect myself from the backfire of my pistol. It gave me pause as I removed it. I wasn’t going too at first. Seeing his face had made my eyes nearly black out with savage rage, the pressure violent against my skull. The crushing burden of the last seven years without you ploughing into me with the look of Alfred Hamilton’s malicious face.

But I held – thinking of Miranda’s patient will – refusing to let him die without knowing who did it.

I took the scarf from my face and comically his face froze.

Anger turned his features for a second but I wanted him scared so I ended it there. I’ll never know the anger on his face and no one will. He didn’t deserve it, what was he angry for?! He placed himself on this path the moment he raised his voice to you, held a hand above you, ridiculed you, spat on you, took you away from us in the night.

I chose my blade. The pistol too quick.

But my blade was just as fast. Perhaps in the end I did not have it in me to drag out his death because I could not bare to look upon him longer than need.

My blade struck his neck and snapped his collar bone, it wedged, guttering blood but my wrath made me a titan. I pulled the blade swiftly out and was almost sick the moment his blood touched me. He fell back to his knees, frothing at the mouth, babbling in his throat. His eyes staring at my face but I doubt they could see anymore. A possession took me, for I pulled my pistol and shot him, I pulled my blade and slashed again and again, over and over... across his face, across his chest, his weakly risen arms perhaps a reflex for he was but a carcass now.

I brought the butt of the gun to his temple and thrust the blade through his sternum so he could not fall. Then - when the rage had become a fiery white - I stood back, heaved but nothing came.  

I confess.

A weight was removed at his glazed eyes.

Justice was sickly sweet. An ambrosia to my wounds.

-

**February 13 th 1713                                                        **

**North-East Bay, Nassau - 25°05'11.5"N 77°16'58.2"W**

What is rage really?

Violent, uncontrollable anger.

I feel no less wrath but I feel at peace with it. It is as if the final nail in the coffin was the slaughter of _that_ man. The wrath has won. I am now pure violet rage. It does not suffocate, it does not hinder.

I am Captain Flint.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone that has left kudos, a comment or simply just read!
> 
> Two people have shown interest in being Beta readers for me on future stuff so hopefully things will only get better from here! However, I write for multiple fandoms and more help the merrier. If you like my writing and would like to help me improve for future projects - if you would like to edit an already posted fic for me - please feel free to drop me a message on any of my SNS below. 
> 
> Thank you, Ashleigh.
> 
> Tumblr (Mixed Obsessions) - AutumnQuest  
> Twitter (Gaming & Stuff) - AshleighTookey  
> Instagram (Bookstagram & Odd Travel) - AshleighTookey  
> Goodreads - AshTookey


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